Smithsonian.com

“Black Hands”

A new poem by Amit Majmudar

Laudanum-lullabied, schnapps- Nightcapped, hemophiliac Kings and hotblooded counsellors Sit up in bed with chest pains, But when the doctors arrive, Stethoscopes out, to listen, Each unbuttoned silk nightshirt Reveals the crisp soot print of A black hand.

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Gavrilo Princip’s standing On the wrong street this June day With his hands in his pockets When the Archduke’s open-top Car takes a right turn and stops. Gavrilo feels a soft throb, Looks down, and sees to his shock There, at the end of his arm, A black hand.

Charcoal on the cheeks is best For night raids gathering fresh Blown roses off a thorn bush. In a land that is no man’s Lies a man that is no man, His helmet glowing yellow- Green then going out again— A firefly cupped in night’s Black hands.

Kindest of all: the Harlem Hellfighters. Ich black slave, du White slave, they chuckle, poking A cigarette in a near- Dead Kraut’s mouth as if he were A new dad. Yet in this hell They bring hell, give hell, and close The black eyes of their black dead With black hands.